


Poison the Wellspring

by Lywinis



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Eventual violence, F/M, Gen, I am serious, M/M, abandon all hope all ye who enter here, don't read this expecting fluff, eventual Capsicoul, this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-03 12:22:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson has heart. Or at least, he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heart

[ ](http://imgur.com/TKbXewQ)

“You’re going to lose,” he said. He could taste the copper on his lips, and feel the rattling of his breath as he inhaled. He knew it was the end.  His vision was fading, wobbling in and out of focus as he regarded the demigod. The Destroyer rifle was laid across his lap, and he could feel the mechanism charging. Eighty-five percent.  
  
He could have done more than this. He could have tried harder. His only regret was that  this was his sacrifice play. Loki was still in the way of his barrel. He could do some damage, at least. What was it he had said to Thor?  
  
 _They think you immortal, but we both know that’s not true, don’t we?_  
  
Loki turned, his eyes sweeping across the face of the downed agent. “Am I?”  
  
Ninety percent. “It’s in your nature.”  
  
“Your heroes are scattered, your floating fortress falls from the sky... where is my disadvantage?” Loki’s smile was ingratiating, humoring a downed foe. A cat toying with its supper.  
  
“You lack conviction.” Ninety-five percent.  
  
“Do I?” Cold enveloped him as Loki appeared before him. The  demigod was cloaked in palpable power, like touching his tongue to a battery. He was chilled, drenched in the icy void, the endless expanse of space. He felt the sear as the air was blasted from his lungs, Loki kneeling out of the reach of the rifle’s barrel. He was at full charge, but his arms wouldn’t lift to shift the barrel.  
  
His play was all for nothing. He couldn’t fire.  
  
Green eyes locked to cobalt, and the demigod smiled.  
  
“Perhaps I lack conviction, but you do not, do you, Son of Coul?” Loki’s voice was a purr, almost inaudible above the thrum of his slowing heartbeat in his ears. “Your soul is noble, struggling against your failing body even now. I see. Even more than your little Hawk, you have...heart.”  
  
“No.” He willed his body to move, to struggle away from the bloodied scepter that Loki stretched toward his chest. It left a crimson smear across his shirt  as the  blade touched his heart. His breath stopped.  
  
Everything flared a brilliant blue, and Phil Coulson faded away.  
  
He watched, as Loki weaved his magics. He knew no one could see him now, and he rolled his hands over as if he had seen them for the first time today. The wound in his chest was gone, healed with nary a scar. He opened his shirt, and felt the new skin. Loki gave an amused smile as he stepped back.  
  
“Anything is possible, my little agent.” Loki laid a hand on Phil’s shoulder. “I can break you down and create you anew, for you are mine to mould and use as I please. Your existence depends on your usefulness. You are to be my agent on the inside.”  
  
He tilted his head, as if listening to something only he could hear.  
  
“I see. It seems as if your little Hawk will no longer be as useful to me as I thought.” Phil didn’t answer; it wasn’t his job to answer. It was his job to obey. “Come, then, we shall weave what we need, and begone from this place. The tesseract has provided me with power. You’ll see soon enough.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Phil said, falling into step behind his new master. He stared at his hands. They seemed...better, somehow. Perhaps because his purpose had been laid out before him. He no longer had to ask questions.  
  
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such peace.  
  
“You were right about this plan, you know.” Loki’s voice was conversational. They passed the security station, and Phil saw the curious illusion Loki weaved. He could see himself, talking to Loki as he had been, and then, he pulled the trigger on the Destroyer rifle. Loki was blown through the wall of the helicarrier.  
  
“So that’s what it does,” he murmured. Loki smiled, and guided him away.  
  
“Yes, this plan will fail. New York will not fall today. I have already forseen my brother’s meddling. It will not be I who triumphs against him, not today.” Loki strolled past the medics who rushed down the hall, oblivious to their presence. They were shadows, less than shadows. Phil might have mentioned that SHIELD would have killed for the power Loki held, but it was no longer important. His eyes passed people he knew, people he had once called colleagues, and he felt only pity.  
  
None of them knew what it was to be so free.  
  
“You, however, are my worm in the apple, little Agent. They will get their dear, dear Phillip Coulson back. Fury will keep you under wraps, until you are recovered enough to return to your duty -- to my task I have for you.”  
  
“As you wish,” Phil murmured.  
  
“I do wish it,” Loki said. “I wish to tear them apart from the inside out. So, my dear Agent. Tell me, while the medics clean ‘your’ wounds, about your organization.”  
  
And so, he did. It spilled from him like water, the wellspring from which he flowed. SHIELD was laid bare in the space of minutes. Secrets, codes, access points Clint had found. Security breaches, places that hadn’t been plugged. Backdoors in the firewalls, holes in the  physical security. He spoke of safehouses, spoke of not-so-safehouses, and he listed allies of the organization.  
  
Loki listened to it all, taking note of things and asking a question here and there. Phil answered where he could. If he could not, he explained he didn’t have the clearance. He gave all he could, and then some, pointing out flaws he’d found on his own.  
  
“Enough.” Loki said, after a time. “I believe you are done ‘dying’, my agent. Now they will find their resolve. They will place you in their hospice now. Where will it be?”  
  
“Medical, under lock and key.” Phil’s voice was certain. “Director Fury will have falsified claims of my death. He will want to keep my survival a secret for now. I looked in pretty bad shape. No sense keeping me in the open where a counter-agent could finish the job and cripple him.”  
  
Loki looked amused. “Of course he would want to keep his eyes. Shall we give him his vision back?”  
  
“If you order it, sir, I’ll do it.”  
  
“You’re much more pliant than your little Hawk. Such a fighter, that one.”  
  
“Agent Barton has a problem with authority, sir. He always has. I’m the only one to get through to him.” Phil paused, considering. “If you were to place him under your influence again, he would not fight so much. I would be able to handle him.”  
  
“I have no need of two pawns.” Loki waved a hand. “You will suffice. I shall give you instructions, and I trust you shall remain as creative as ever to carry them out?”  
  
“Of course, sir. My skillset is varied and eclectic.” Phil felt a small amount of pride. He could serve. That was  what mattered. He was free, truly free, and he wanted to be of service.  
  
“Good. Listen carefully. Here is what you shall do.” Loki paused, thinking. Phil looked around at the agents rushing around. “Your heroes will win the battle, but they shall not win the war. They are too forthright. You and I are aware of how wars are truly won.”  
  
“Before anyone ever fires a shot,” Phil replied. “Take them out quick and quiet, from the inside.”  
  
“Very good, my agent. I made an excellent choice when I revived you. Serve me well, and you shall continue to live. You are bound by my magics to this plane. Should you fail me, the threads of your existence shall snap, and you shall die, truly die.”  
  
“I won’t fail you.”  
  
“I trust not,” Loki purred. “Now, listen, and I shall tell you how we shall bring them down. We shall take them apart from within. Who would suspect their most loyal agent of treachery?”  
  
“I’d have to move on all of them at once, sir. They’ll suspect me after a while. I’ll only be able to move so far before I’d be hobbled.”  
  
“My brother shall, as always, be the thorn in my side. I shall endeavor to keep him out of your already thinning hair, Agent. Your worries shall be the Man of Iron and that...creature. The Captain shall not be an issue. I shall take care of him myself.”  
  
“Sir, let me.” Phil spoke up. “With respect, I should be the one to do it. I know more about him than anyone living.”  
  
Loki gestured, and a deck of trading cards appeared in his slender fingers. Phil nodded. “I was his biggest fan. It’s fitting, if you have a sense of irony.”  
  
‘I have many things that amuse me, Son of Coul, but none so much as this, I think.” Loki smiled, his eyes glinting like blades. “Very well, I shall leave the good Captain to you. Make him suffer. He was a valiant opponent in Stuttgart.”  
  
“Of course, sir.”  
  
“I will lose this battle.” Loki’s lips twisted. “I do not like it. Not once have I conceded a fight so easily. However, the long term gains are far more appealing.”  
  
“A battle doesn’t matter if  the war is lost,” Phil replied. “I’ll ensure that it is.”  
  
“I expect no less.” Loki unfurled his cape, and it flowed like green mist around them.  Phil looked around, and saw the ICU in the basement. He lay in the bed, his eyes closed, his cheeks hollowed and sunken. “There you ‘sleep’, my agent. You will await my signal.”  
  
‘Yes, sir. How will I know?”  
  
“You will know. I shall visit you when it is time. Until then, sleep, and await my pleasure.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
The doppelganger faded out, and Phil looked down. A hospital gown covered him, and he climbed into the bed, pulling the blankets up around him. He lay back, closing his eyes, and felt the weight of bandages encircle his chest.  
  
He slept.

* * *

When he awoke, it was to Director Fury staring down at him.  
  
“Sir,” he managed, his throat dry.

“You ever scare the hell out of me like that again, PJ, and I’ll kill you myself.” Fury’s voice was raw, and his single eye was tired, like he’d been mainlining coffee again. He poured a cup of water for Phil, his hands trembling a hair. He placed a straw in it and bent it around for Phil to sip.

Phil would have been touched if he felt anything at all.

“Sorry, sir. Had to be done.”

“Don’t patronize me, Coulson, I know it did.” Nick pulled something from his pocket, and set the intact set of trading cards down on the table next to Phil. “I had some dummies made up. Rogers still has them. I think I made him feel a little too guilty about it.”

“You manipulated them.” Phil’s voice didn’t hold disapproval, only the question. Nick gave a sharp nod. “How angry are they?”

“They don’t know, not as of yet. I just got word that you were stable. When you go down, you go down.” Nick set the cup of water down when it looked like Phil was done. “You’re a hard son of a bitch to kill. Then again, I figured that out when you had the balls to punch me in the nose.”

Phil’s lips lifted in a weak smile. “You tried to tell me my best friend dying was for the good of the mission. I know now what you were trying to do, but you could have handled it better.”

“No, that’s what I have you for, PJ. No more close shaves like that, all right?” Nick’s voice was stern, and he looked Phil over once more. “You look like shit, soldier.”

“All respect, sir, so do you.”

“When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.” Nick’s lips twitched up with a smile. “You need to sleep. I’ll break the news to the Initiative, and let them yell at me for a couple of hours. I’m pretty sure Barton, at least, will have something to say.”

* * *

Phil closed his eyes, and slept. He dreamed of blue, bright blue, searing his eyes and his lungs, and he turned in his sleep, the pain in his chest making him wince. He opened his eyes, blinking into bright blue eyes under blonde brows that creased into a frown.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” Captain Rogers asked. Phil took a moment to assess, knowing that the Captain would assume it was due to the medication and because he himself had been a longtime fan of the Captain. In reality, the bright blue reminded him of his mission, so he switched gears, blinking up at Steve Rogers with a quizzical expression.

“I’m sorry, it was my turn at watch,” Steve explained. He indicated the chair, and Phil looked over to see Clint curled up on a makeshift cot.

“And how long have you been at watch?” Phil’s voice was quiet, so as not to wake the man on the cot. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“I’ve been here and there,” Steve said, evasive. He poured Phil some water, which he accepted, drinking a little faster than he should have. “Easy, now. You’ve been asleep off and on. This is the first time you’ve been lucid, by all reports.”

“You don’t have to be here,” Phil said, his throat a little less scratchy for the water. He lay back on the pillows, looking up at Steve. One of his targets, he’d gotten closer just for the illusion of having been stabbed. That was enough to make this interaction worthwhile.

“No, but I want to be here. Someone watched over me while I was sleeping, and I figured I should return the favor.” Steve’s lips quirked at the corners, and Phil looked away, the memory of the conversation one that should have embarrassed him. He found it was easy to play emotions he had felt before. It was like slipping back into a role, even though he had no need for them, he had need of the reactions they produced.

Perhaps his SHIELD training had come in useful after all.

“Like I said, you don’t have to be here, Captain Rogers–“ Phil stilled as a hand was laid on his arm, the one clear of the IV drip.

“I want to be here. So does everyone else. You should have heard Stark make a ruckus.”

Phil’s eyebrows rose. “Stark?”

“Believe it or not, the guy seems to like you.” Steve’s lips curled higher. “He went shouting something at Fury that might have sounded like ‘have Captain America punch you in the face for that’.”

Phil let out a low noise, a semblance of a groan. “And did you?”

“He offered to pay me,” Steve said. “I considered it.”

“When did he tell you?” Phil asked.

“About two days ago, when Thor came bolting back from Asgard on his lightning, shouting something about you not being in Valhalla.” Steve made a face. His religious background was still intact, Phil noted. Neither Gods nor Monsters frightened a righteous man.

“To be fair, I heard someone saying I was pretty touch–and–go for a while,” Phil said. “Director Fury might not have known what to tell you.”

“To be fair, Director Fury has a bug up his ass for manipulating people into doing what he wants,” snapped Clint from his cot. He rolled over and looked at Phil, his eyes hollow and his face tired. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “Good to have you back all the same, sir.”

“Agent Barton,” said Phil with a nod. “Sleep, son, you look like shit.”

“All respect, sir, so do you.” Clint smiled, tight and painful, and Phil nodded, wincing at the pull of bandages on his chest.

“Easy now,” Steve said, and Phil returned his gaze to the Captain. “Both of you have been through some rough patches. You’re both in need of rest, so no bickering while you do it.”

“We’re hardly bickering, Captain Rogers,” Phil said, settling back into his pillows. He could tell the drugs were kicking back in; he felt heavy and sleepy. “Agent Barton has yet to use his more…colorful vocabulary.”

“Fuck you, old man,” came the reply, but Phil was already asleep.

* * *

Blue, blue, blue. It was his whole world, the blue. It whispered to him of ice and snow, howling winds far beyond his ken. He could taste crisp air, feel the patter of snowflakes on his cheeks.

It howled beyond him, through him, and he was one with the ice, frozen down to his core. He could taste it on his tongue, the bitter snap of winter, and he had never been more at peace.

He woke to the sound of a screwdriver ratcheting something into place.

“Oh, Lazarus, you’re up again. Good.” Tony Stark looked over the gauntlet he was fiddling with at him. How he’d gotten one of his gauntlets through security, Phil could only guess.

“Mister Stark,” Phil said, unsure why Tony Stark would take an interest in him.

“You scared the bejeezus out of Pepper, I hope you know.” Tony leveled the screwdriver at him. “She sobbed her eyes out for days afterwards, thinking you were dead. When Fury called with the news, I thought she was going to skin him alive.”

“I’ll apologize to Ms. Potts the second I’m able to walk out of medical,” Phil said, his voice droll. “It begs the question, however – why are you here?”

“Someone had to keep an eye on you while Capsicle went and got some shut-eye,” Tony said. He raised a groomed eyebrow at Phil. “He’s been at your bedside for almost a week now. Clint said he hadn’t had more than a catnap or two since he’d been in here. I sent him to get some sleep.”

“I must have actually died. You’re not the real Tony Stark. Who are you working for?”

“Well, the paperwork says twelve percent of me is working for Pepper, but I could argue for a solid fifteen percent.” Tony smirked. “I did, actually, behave like a member of your super secret boy band and sent Cap off to get some rest. He said he’d be back in four hours.”

“Surely he needs more than four hours of sleep.”

“He does, but he won’t let himself until you’re out of the red.” Tony resumed fiddling with his gauntlet, making minor tweaks here and there. “You did a number on us there, Sunshine. You don’t get to up and die before I have a chance to pay you back for the Supernanny comment.”

“I expect toothpaste in my socks come morning,” Phil said, voice dry. “Mister Stark, you shouldn’t be here, people will talk. They might even think you have a heart.”

Tony frowned, then the smirk returned. “You almost dying seems to have jumpstarted your sense of humor.”

“I always had it, you were too busy trying to annoy me to notice.” Phil’s lips lifted, even as his eyelids drooped. He drifted off.

“Good to have you back, Phil,” Tony murmured, the gauntlet holding his full attention once again.

* * *

He woke to Natasha sitting by his bedside. She didn’t say anything, just brushed his hair back and hummed a lullaby in Russian. He drifted back to sleep to the sensation of fingers in his hair.

* * *

Bruce hadn’t yet made an appearance; he and Thor walked in, shoulder to shoulder, and that made Phil lift an eyebrow. Still, the good doctor and his Asgardian team mate seemed pleased he was awake longer.

“Son of Coul, I am glad to see your pallor improving,” Thor rumbled, and Phil was surprised at the restraint of the Asgardian. He settled himself on the chair next to the bed, his brow furrowed. “I searched for you in Valhalla, my friend, but did not find you.”

“I don’t think I would have gone to Valhalla, Thor.” Phil’s expression wasn’t unkind, but Thor just shook his head.

“I thought you perished with honor, in the thick of combat! Any Valkyrie worth her blade would have come to reap your soul.” Thor’s eyes were stormy, and Phil could feel the static in the room building. “I thought it another trick of my brother’s.”

Phil shook his head. “No, I’m apparently just too stubborn to die.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Bruce murmured. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Phil.”

“Thank you, Doctor Banner,” Phil said. “I know we haven’t spoken much, but it means a lot that everyone has come to visit.”

“Of course,” said Bruce, and he seemed to sit a little straighter in his chair. They made small talk until Phil started to drift, and then the two of them slipped out. No one had warned Phil that even Thor could be quiet enough so as not to disturb his rest.

* * *

He was getting stronger each day, his recovery time almost halved by the STRIKE serum in his blood. Fury hadn’t told the Avengers _everything_ , of course.

He’d signed on for the super soldier project when he was twenty-two. Fresh out of jump school, he’d had a chance to be like Captain America and he’d leapt at it like no one’s business. It was the same project that would later be picked up by one Bruce Banner. He mulled over it, dreamed about it when he slept thanks to the drugs.

The STRIKE project wasn’t a success by the military’s standard – Steve Rogers had been the ideal, and Phil Coulson was no Steve Rogers. Increased reflexes, healing times shortened, a minor stamina boost, these things meant nothing to an army that wanted Captain America as their ideal. They’d nixed the project, and Phil was taken into custody by SHIELD.

He’d been given a choice – work for them, or be released where the army could keep him locked down. He chose the former, and donned his suit and tie to be Fury’s right hand man. All in all, it hadn’t been a bad deal.

None of it mattered now, save for his recovery time. He woke, several times, to Captain Rogers with his sketchpad on his knee, doodling something. He dozed off again before a conversation could be had, however.

* * *

One day, he woke alone. There was a note by the bed, and Phil recognized the handwriting. Captain Rogers had left one word:

**Assembled.**

Phil went back to sleep.

His dreams were blue, blue, **_blue_**.


	2. Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Physical therapy happens. Phil moves into the tower. Dreams turn black instead of blue, but the worm has not yet reached the core of the apple.

[ ](http://imgur.com/TKbXewQ)

Physical therapy had never been something that Phil Coulson found enjoyable. Somehow it was even less so while under the effects of Loki’s scepter. He was tired, frustrated with waiting, as he pushed his body through its recovery process. It started out in his hospital bed, with breathing exercises that would help increase his lung capacity. Clint watched, impassive, as Phil blew air through a straw, levitating a ping pong ball.

Phil took another deep breath, his chest searing, and blew into the straw. He winced, coughing, and Clint stood up, striding out of the room with the click of the door sliding shut. Phil watched him go, then took a deep breath.

* * *

 

Phil stood in the bathroom, the paper gown showing off his bare ass, and shut the door. He took off his covering, looking at the ugly, twisted line the scar made. It ran from the point of his shoulder to just above his stomach, a foot long and almost half as wide. It was knitting, he could see it – he shouldn’t even be standing, much less inspecting his wound, but the STRIKE serum was working to meld flesh back together, his bones were knitting, he was off the respirator while he slept long hours. He replaced the bandage, stepping into his boxers with some difficulty before replacing the gown and shuffling out while holding his IV stand.

Captain Rogers was waiting for him in the chair.

“Captain Rogers,” he said, feeling winded as he sat down.

“Steve. We’re both off duty, Agent Coulson.” Steve’s lips quirked into a smile to see him up and about, just for a little while.

Phil’s feet dangled off the edge of the bed, and he felt small compared to the Captain. He pulled himself back into bed, tucking his bare feet under the blanket. Steve’s eyes slid away from him as he readjusted the blanket, presumably to give him privacy. He got himself settled and pulled the IV stand over, his breath coming out in a sharp sigh as he lay back.

Steve’s eyes snapped back to him as he made the noise, looking for signs of discomfort.

“You in a lot of pain, still?” he asked. Blue eyes softened at the edges, no longer icy, no longer comforting. He needed them sharp, to focus, but he knew he needed the Captain soft, prepared.

“A bit,” he said, his fingers twitching in the blankets. “Physical therapy was never my favorite part of medical.”

“Clint says you’re working hard.” Steve’s brows drew up in a hopeful sort of expression.

“Clint wouldn’t know,” Phil said. He lay back and closed his eyes. “He hasn’t been back since the first deep breathing exercise.”

“He’s trying, Agent Coulson.” Steve’s voice held a note of reproach.

“We all are, Captain Rogers.” Phil didn’t move. “He’s been through a traumatic experience.”

He could hear the creaking of the chair as Steve rose to leave. He opened his eyes, surprised instead to find Steve sitting back, his pad on his knee again.

“I don’t require anyone at my bedside,” Phil said. “I stopped sleeping with the respirator a week ago.”

“Can’t I sit here because I like the company?” Steve didn’t look up from his drawing pad, his pencil moving with sure, firm strokes. “Even though you’re cranky, I’d like to spend the time with you, if I could.”

Phil’s lips thinned. “I’m not cranky.”

“Agent Coulson, you’re snapping at me like a bear that’s gotten its nose swatted. You’re tired, and sore, and you feel like everything’s going to fall apart and you want to let it,” Steve said, his eyes raising at last to look at him, and they were blue, so blue. Phil felt his breath ease. “It’s all right to be in pain, it’s all right to be tired. It’s all right to take it out on me, if you feel like it, but don’t take it out on Clint, or anyone else. They’ve been through too much.”

Phil took a breath, then another, practicing his deep breathing. Steve seemed to relax, as much as he ever did, all coiled readiness and tight control, even as he resumed sketching.

“It isn’t fair of me to take it out on anyone.” Phil’s voice was quiet, he let it slide across the pages of the Captain’s sketchbook, used it to draw his attention. “I don’t like bed rest. I like doing, not waiting. You and Clint had to bear the brunt of that, and for that, you have my apologies, Captain.”

“Steve,” he murmured, but Phil didn’t correct himself. “Listen, it’s not that I’m upset – “

Phil held up a hand. “I know you aren’t. I’ve seen upset from you. You’re disappointed.”

Steve blinked. “Yes, but not because of you. I’m disappointed I can’t be of much help.”

“We’re talking,” Phil said, his eyes slipping closed again. “That helps. It alleviates the frustration a bit.”

“Oh.” Steve smiled, going soft at the edges. “All right, then.”

He stayed, humming something tuneless as Phil drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 

When he stepped back onto the helicarrier, he leaned on a cane. His footsteps were sure, but he leaned on the walking stick to take the weight off his side, his arm bound in a sling. The halls were quiet, his footsteps echoing on the metal walls of the airship. He paused at the doors to the command deck, wondering if he should even step onto the bridge.

It went silent as he appeared, agents swiveling their chairs away from their monitors, staring at him. And, all at once, they burst into applause, even Deputy Director Hill, leaning against the railing of the command deck with one hip, her hard eyes softening just a bit.

Fury looked at him from the bridge, his head inclining once.

It was time to get to work.

* * *

 

“Light desk duty for the next four months,” Fury said, and Phil scowled. “I know what the doctor said, and I know you’ll be back in two weeks, or you’ll try, but god damn it Coulson if you pop a stitch on me I swear to god–“

“I’m worth more in the field than as a desk jockey.” Phil’s voice was firm, and his eyebrows knit together.

“You’re worth more in Avengers Tower as my eyes and ears, Coulson.” Fury’s voice cut over his, and Phil blinked at him, unsure he’d heard correctly. “You heard me. I want you to move into the tower.”

“Wouldn’t that be up to Mister Stark?” Phil asked.

“Stark put it in writing, he wants you there rather than anyone else, ‘especially Sitwell’, in his words.” Fury shook his head. “I don’t know what you did, but he’d rather the devil he knows.”

Phil tipped back in his chair, steepling his fingers. He knew this was the best way to get close to all of them, find their weaknesses and bring them down from within, but the man he had been before the blue wouldn’t let it slide without an argument.

“Is this an order, sir?” he asked, fingers still steepled.

“You know damn well it is,” Fury said.

“I want hazard pay for my time living there, and I want double my pension.” He said, his eyes flinty. Money didn’t concern him; appearances did. Phil Coulson would ask for a raise before being caught dead in the same house as Tony Stark. He was not Phil Coulson, but he had to be convincing.

“Done.” Fury didn’t even bat an eyelash. “You move in tomorrow. I’ll send over some agents to help you pack.”

It was settled, then. He stood, gathering up his cane, and hobbled to his office.

* * *

 

He found Clint on his couch.

It had been a habit of Clint’s before the helicarrier. Whenever he felt lost or alone, he would come and put his feet up on a beaten to hell old couch in Phil’s office. Sometimes, if Phil were working late, he would bring takeout and make sure Phil ate at least something while he worked. His mind scrolled through almost twelve years of this, ever since he recruited Clint to SHIELD instead of killing him as Fury had ordered. This man was already close to him – all Phil had to do was ensure he stayed close.

Phil glanced at him. “Agent Barton?”

“Oh, so we’re gonna fuckin’ do this now?” the archer snapped. “You just gonna pretend that you’re not limping around?”

“Barton,” Phil said, hobbling to his desk as Clint glared at him. He settled in his chair with a muted grunt, which had Clint’s eyes narrowing at him. “I’m not pretending, I’m doing. I am limping around. That’s what a man with a chest wound thirteen inches long _does_.”

Clint flinched.

“You’re in my office for a specific reason,” Phil prompted.

“What the hell happened to you?” Clint asked, drawing his knees up and putting his arms on them. Phil recognized the gesture, a classic harm avoidance gesture.

“Barton,” he said, exasperated, and Clint flinched again. “Clint.”

Brown eyes locked on blue-grey, and Phil felt the chill that they might see too deep, because at one point they’d been _blue_ , too. They searched his face, the bags underneath them making Clint’s face look older than it was. Phil waited.

“I just…I wanted to apologize, I guess.”

“For?”

“I led Loki there,” Clint said, and made a helpless, angry gesture, flexing his left hand – his bow hand. While Clint was an ambidextrous shot, he preferred his left hand, and Phil had picked up on this tell years ago. He sat forward, clasping his hands over his desk blotter.

“You followed orders, son. Not my orders, mind, but you followed orders.” Phil’s eyes flicked across Clint’s face. “No one can fault you for that. It was unknown tech, and compromise wasn’t something we’d expected out of Loki. Deception, yes, sleight of hand, yes, but not mind control.”

Clint didn’t look happy about the hard facts being delivered. His shoulders hunched deeper with every word Phil spoke, and he looked drawn as taut as his bowstring.

“I watched the security feeds, you know,” Phil said. “After.”

At long last, Clint looked away. “I did, too.”

“Did you notice what I did?” Phil asked.

“Me puttin’ arrows through people I ate lunch with a week prior? Yeah, I did.” Clint’s voice was brittle. “Kinda hard to miss that part.”

“You did miss,” Phil said, and Clint’s head whipped around.

“S’cuse me?” His eyes narrowed, and his pride seemed to overwhelm the guilt he felt for just a moment as he glared at Phil from across the couch. “I don’t _miss_.”

“Sure seems like you did, considering that thirteen agents, including Deputy Director Hill, walked away with only minor injuries.” Phil kept his gaze on Clint, on those eyes sharp enough to cut down anyone he commanded. “All of them were in your sights in particular, not anyone else’s, one of the other shocktroops Loki brainwashed. And then I remembered what you just pointed out. You _don’t_ miss.”

Clint’s expression worked, morphed from guilt to horror, to understanding.

“You always did have a problem with authority, Agent Barton,” Phil said, allowing a smile to grace the corners of his mouth. “Even then, you were fighting the effects of the scepter.”

Phil couldn’t understand why he would, although he kept it to himself, save for a searching look at Clint’s face while he processed the possibilities. The blue was the perfect peace, an inner calm that he couldn’t shake even if he wanted to, and he didn’t want to. He’d been military before, long before SHIELD there had been the Rangers, but even then, there had been doubt, questioning.

The blue took all that away.

“You were fighting Loki’s control the whole way,” Phil said. “I watched it. If you had wanted to hit any of those targets, you would have. But they weren’t your targets, now were they?”

“No, sir, not from what I can remember. I was aiming for control panels, walls, anything that would keep my arrows out of people.” Clint’s sentences were slow, as though he were coming to realization. Knowing Clint, it would take him months to come to terms with it. “I remember wishing Deputy Director Hill would have put a bullet between my eyes.”

“She didn’t want to lose an asset that we might have recovered later.” Phil stacked the paperwork on his desk and began sorting. He noticed Clint stiffen out of the corner of his eye.

“Is that all I am to you, sir?” he asked, his voice thick with an emotion that Phil couldn’t pinpoint. “An asset?”

“I don’t remember anything but a professional relationship between us before the incident on the helicarrier, Agent Barton.” Phil’s eyebrow rose. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me?”

“Jesus Christ, you’re impossible.” Clint threw his hands up. “What the fuck _happened_ to you?”

“I was stabbed in the back by a Jotun,” he said, his voice as cool as the blue that ran through him. “He ripped through my chest. He broke all of my ribs on that side, punctured my lung, and missed my heart and arteries by inches. That’s what happened to me.”

“I’m talking about the Phil I knew. He’s gone, replaced by a fucking robot!” Clint said, and his voice reached a decibel level where he was almost bellowing. “You keep sitting there, talking about your injuries like it’s no big deal. You should be pissed that you’re on desk duty, but not a peep from you about it. Where in the fuck is Phil?”

Was his cover blown that easily? Phil’s pen made a soft _clack_ as he lay it down, folding his hands on his blotter.

“What would you like me to say, Agent Barton?” he asked. “I’m currently sidelined to desk duty. My left arm is in a sling, I walk with a cane. Of course I’m annoyed. There’s no point in letting the frustration out, and the painkillers mellow it quite a bit. You remember how it was after Budapest.”

Clint flinched.

“It’s a major wound, and it needs time to heal,” Phil said. “I can’t go haring off after you and Agent Romanoff like I used to, not right now. I’m, unfortunately, needed here.”

He stood, not without effort, and used the desk to shuffle over to where Clint was sitting, looking very small. He was curled in on himself, and Phil was reminded of a pillbug from his childhood. He lowered himself down with a grunt that was half theatrics, half actual pain before he turned to Clint.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Clint. There are provisions in the handbook for mind control. You haven’t been punished for it, have you?”

“Not ‘ficially.” Clint looked away. “There are agents…they lost friends, coworkers. It’s all right.”

Phil hardened his gaze, glad that the subject had changed off of him.

“It’s not, Clint. Talk to me. What happened?”

“Couple of cracked ribs, black eye. Nothing huge. Something I deserved.” Clint folded his arms on his knees, and rested his chin on them. “I killed them, sir. Just as surely as if I’d pulled the trigger myself. You take responsibility for every shot, and the outcome of that.”

Phil reached out and smacked Clint on the back of the head. It was gentle, but insistent, and Clint looked over at him, his gaze assessing. Phil allowed it to sweep over him, heart rate preparing to speed if those too-sharp eyes caught the flicker of blue that powered Phil’s thoughts and actions.

Instead, Clint lowered his head back to his arms, a lot of the tension bleeding from him.

“I know, Clint.” Phil rested a hand on his shoulder. “I know.”

How long they sat like that, with Phil’s hand on Clint’s shoulder, Clint remembering how to breathe, not even Phil could say.

* * *

 

When the knock came on his door, Phil opened it, expecting junior agents. Instead, Steve Rogers stood there, his leather jacket tossed over his shoulder because the day had become too warm. Phil paused a moment, remembering how before the blue he would have fallen all over himself to get the Captain’s notice. Vague feelings of shame crept through him, leaking through the blue, and he cleared his throat.

“Captain,” he said.

“Steve,” the man corrected, and Phil didn’t acknowledge it. “Fury said you could use some help moving into the tower.”

“I can’t do any of the heavy lifting myself,” Phil said, indicating the sling. “I was waiting on Mathers and Marks to come help.”

“I figured that I would lend a hand instead,” Steve said, smiling. Phil considered for a moment, then stepped aside, gesturing for Steve to come in. “I borrowed a van from SHIELD, so we should be able to get everything over there in just a couple of trips.”

“Good foresight,” Phil murmured, and Steve ducked his head a little, looking pleased. “You don’t have to help, you know.”

“I know I don’t have to, I want to,” Steve said. “Consider it a housewarming gift if you like. Now, where do we start?”

Phil had been boxing up books in the living room, the last thing to be packed before everything could be moved; all of his pictures and memorabilia were packed away, and he indicated the boxes in his apartment’s office. Steve nodded and got to work, and there was an awkward silence until Phil turned on the stereo, soft jazz filtering through the apartment.

Steve smiled and picked up some boxes, heading out the door. Phil went back to packing, the living room becoming more and more bare as he worked. He lost himself in the repetitive task, moving books and knickknacks to the boxes, sealing them up, and setting them aside for Steve to grab when he had a chance.

He noted that he hadn’t seen Steve pass his peripheral vision again since the last time he came in, looked at the clock, and decided that a break might be in order. It was time for another pain pill, and his shoulder ached from the strain of not using it.

He hobbled to the refrigerator, pulling a couple of chilled bottles of water out and cradling them against the sling. He made his way back into the office and found Steve leaning against the desk, looking up at the shield. Steve’s head turned just enough to acknowledge him, and he accepted the bottle of water with a nod of thanks.

Originally intended to be an office, he was never home long enough to use it as such. Instead, it had become sort of a storage facility-slash-display room for his collection. He flicked on the display lights, the bulbs reflecting off the glass cases, each as high as the ceiling and holding bits and pieces of the past.

Comics, special issues that Phil loved rested in places of honor in frames along the wall, as did a replica of the original kite shield that the Captain had carried. A helmet, also a replica, along with a pair of motorcycle goggles rested on a stand just underneath it. Various bits and bobs, from toys to small replicas of the Captain’s motorcycle to his own battered and well-loved lunchpail from childhood, rested in the locked glass cases. His longboxes sat in filing cabinets, and were kept under lock and key. Kept dusted, free of damaging light, and fingerprints, the collection was also near mint.

All save the lunchbox, which bore the dent in it still from when he’d cracked Johnny Milkins across the face for picking on little Benny Porter for being the runt of the class. He still bore the scar on his lip for that one.

“I’ve had quite a long time to collect everything,” he said, leaning against the wall. Some original bond posters, peeled and fading, had been restored and framed, featuring Steve’s stern face as he exhorted the wartime populous to support the troops.

He turned his head to Steve, shrugging. Steve’s gaze wasn’t on him, but on the shield, the kite hung high and under the beloved gaze of proper fitted display lights.

“There’s a lot here,” Steve said, draining half the bottle of water in a go. He hadn’t moved his gaze from the kite shield. “I didn’t know…I mean, people had told me there was quite a bit. That there were stories and figures and that they were out there. I guess…I didn’t believe them.”

Phil pushed off the wall and hobbled to the kite shield, lifting his good arm and placing it, palm flat on the cool metal.

“Some of us, those of us who have heroes, don’t like to forget,” he said, turning his head to look at Steve. “The war might have ended, but you stood for something good. If we forget history, if we let that slip away, we’re doomed to repeat it.”

“They’re only replicas, but I needed it in my life. You got me through some tough times, when this was the only thing I had. When I said some of us might just need a little old-fashioned, that stood for me, too.”

“You don’t just…fade away, Captain. You were an ideal, not just a person, the second you hopped off that stage and actually started fighting. You showed the world what you could do, when you kept getting up, and some of us, the little guys, we needed that.”

His hand dropped, and he turned to Steve. “Some of us never forget, and really, that’s all you need to keep that spark around. You never really died for some of us, long before we started looking.”

“So…thank you.” His voice was quiet as he looked up at Steve, the bits and pieces of history that meant something to Steve, but also to Phil, spread around them. “You were always there when I needed you the most.”

He cleared his throat, turning away. Steve didn’t say anything, and he looked to be a million miles away. He started, realized he must have been wool gathering, and smiled at Phil.

“No, thank you, Phil, for showing me. It means a lot to know that someone cared enough to collect this stuff.” He laid his hand on the helmet, his eyes going soft and fond. “Last time I saw this kite shield, I was a very young man, with a very big job. It only seems to get bigger as we go along.”

“It does,” Phil said. “I’d have taken it down, but…I can’t get my arms above my head.”

“Oh,” Steve said. He reached up and lifted it off its pegs, and Phil noted the instinct that had the straps slipping down over the Captain’s forearm. For just a moment, it looked like he would tighten the straps and keep going, but he released it, laying it flat on the desk. “It’s lighter than the real thing.”

“Yes, as a replica, it was made of titanium instead of the steel yours was.” Phil placed a hand on it. “I could never get one that wasn’t as authentic as possible. Until now, that seemed kind of silly.”

Steve chuckled. “Hey, you about ready for a break? I could use some lunch.”

Phil nodded. “I need to take another painkiller, so lunch sounds good.”

* * *

 

Tony Stark leaned on the door jamb of Phil’s room in the tower.

“Captain Tightpants is right upstairs, for your stalking pleasure,” he said, his glee at the reveal that Phil was a fan almost manic. “JARVIS still won’t let me video tape.”

“ _Others’ privacy is important, sir. You know this. Those feeds are for security._ ” Phil hadn’t thought it was possible for an AI to sound offended, but JARVIS managed. “ _You may rest assured that the cameras in your quarters are off as well, Agent Coulson._ ”

“Thank you, JARVIS,” he murmured. He put the last box of books on the shelf, his whole body aching. He was still a couple of hours off from another pain pill, but he’d sent Steve off with a thank you after the super soldier had insisted on moving in all the furniture himself.

“Spoilsport,” Tony muttered. Still, the billionaire fixed him with a look that made Phil feel like he was a piece of metal that hadn’t been ground down to spec. He returned the look, breaking down the cardboard box with an awkward twist of his hand before sending it down the garbage chute. “So, Lazarus, what’s your game plan?”

“Paperwork,” Phil said, gesturing to the room off to the right that functioned as his office. “I’m on desk duty for four months.”

“Christ on a crutch, that’s got to be annoying,” Tony said. “Look, you want, we’re doing ‘team building’ thanks to Spangles tonight. Movie night. Pizza and beer and…well, you can’t have beer because painkillers but we’ll get you a milkshake or some shit. We’re doing movie nights every week, if you can believe it.”

“I…” Phil paused and thought about it. “Thank you, Mister Stark. If I’m feeling up to it, I might join you.”

“Come _ooon_ , dad, the kids miss you. It’ll be good for team morale.” Tony grinned at him. “Or not, you’re still a wilting daisy, whatever. But think about it.”

“We’ll see,” Phil said. He wanted to sit, relax until it was time for his next pill, but he still had far too much paperwork to catch up on. Especially if he was expected on the common floor for movie night.

Tony nodded. “You want anything on your pizza? Ham, pepperoni? I could make ‘em do a Cap shield for you.”

“Pepperoni is fine,” Phil said, bemused. Tony flicked his fingers and padded away, already tapping out something on his phone and leaving Phil to wonder.

* * *

 

Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this. The whole team plus Pepper and even Rhodey were slouched on the overstuffed couches in the common room, pizza boxes being passed between them. It seemed like the team was bonding just fine. His mind, drenched in blue as it was, realized that it would make it all the easier to break them apart when the time came.

Still, Steve bolted up from his chair so that Phil could sit, and Pepper shifted up from Tony’s side to press a kiss against his cheek. Clint was draped across Natasha, and he gave Phil a long look before shooting him a thumbs-up as he sat down. Tony handed over a cup, and true to his word, it was a vanilla milkshake.

Phil suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at Stark as Steve sank to the floor to sit tailor-style next to the couch. His head was level with Phil’s elbow, and Phil caught a glance in his peripheral vision before the movie started.

Even with Stark’s commentary, _The Mummy_ was enjoyable, he supposed. He did enjoy plucky librarians. Although he’d remained sitting the entire time, he was exhausted when he struggled to his feet. A large, warm hand underneath his elbow made him look up. Steve stood next to him, the long muscular length of his body a brace to help Phil stand.

“Thank you, Captain. I think I have it from here.”

“You sure?” Steve murmured, handing him his cane.

“Of course, Captain.” Phil took it, their fingers brushing. He stepped out of Steve’s personal space, preparing to hobble to his room. He caught the significant looks that passed between Natasha and Clint as well as the one that wasn’t so subtle between Tony and Pepper. He gave a mental sigh.

Nothing was ever easy.

He bid everyone goodnight, hobbling to the elevator under his own power. When he got to his room, he stripped down for bed, sighing as he sank down onto it. He drifted off almost at once.

He dreamt of nothing, not even blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with 100% more traumatizing title cards! Thanks, Ironpapa!
> 
> Sorry this took so long. In between Chapter One and Chapter Two, I lost my job. I'm still struggling to look for work, so writing has taken a back seat of sorts while I sort through things. Still, I want this story to be completed, because I need it to happen. I'm struggling to sell the few pieces I've done of literotica, and if you'd like samples of that, please head on over to jjcollinswriting.tumblr.com to have a peek at what I've already written! :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, Constant Readers!

**Author's Note:**

> My brain is where pheels go to die. I promise you, this fic is unhappy. It will remain unhappy until the bitter end, because I know where this is going. I have been told that people hope I step on a lego for this.
> 
> So, there's that. That's your warning. Chapter two is coming soon.


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